Vaguely set at the end of 1916
Romano lights another cigarette. Lately it has been the only sustenance he's been living on, preferring to hand his rations to the few men the government spared (disposed of) for him. Nations don't really need food anyway.
Belgium sits next to him, cleaning her gun. Dirt streaks across her cheeks, hair short and uniform two sizes too large. Unassuming; another face in the trenches. Done with playing nurse and done with being trampled upon.
A little ways off sit his men, laughing among each other. Innocent in their years, growing ever older by the day.
Romano watches them and doesn't see them all the same. There is something inherently cruel about a Nation commanding humans. Death is like an illusion to them, and a life passes in the blink of an eye. Human individuality means nothing in the grand scheme of war, but Romano wants to see the little things in his men nonetheless. Andrea writes poetry, Ulisse appears to know every song, Guiliano can't wait to be a father, Roberto plays cello—
There is silence around them now, a temporary peace from the constant rat-tat-tat of the guns and the roar of aeroplanes overhead.
The warble of a songbird starts then, soft and carefree. Then, as if bolstered by the quiet, it allows for its song to echo through the forest.
The men soften their voices. Fabrizio, who wants to perform opera in Vienna, wonders quietly what kind of bird it is.
"A lark," Romano answers.
They turn to him, curiosity shining in their eyes. They've long since discovered their colonnello, no matter how young in appearance, always has information to share, and they lap up the pieces of his humanity like parched dogs.
"You know birds now too, sir?"
Romano looks of up at the sky thoughtfully, but it is empty save for a few puffy clouds. "A couple."
The lark warbles on for a moment longer, then pauses, then decides that it's clearly not flashy enough and changes its tune to that of a blackbird.
The men shrug it off and resume their earlier conversation. Belgium does glance up momentarily, listens, then shrugs and continues to clean her gun.
It's only Romano who stares at the forest, who knows the fool who can whistle just about any bird tune if he so wishes to.
He touches Belgium's shoulder as he stands, to convey to her not to worry as he treads into the forest. He cups his hands around his mouth, like he has been shown, and caws.
It's echoed, small little caws that lead Romano to his destination, threading lightly in the snow. After years of subjugation, from Spain to France to the Byzantine Empire to the Roman Republic, Romano knows how to sneak around, light on his feet and impossible to detect by most.
By most except for the idiot imitating the chirrup of a sparrow now. Romano sees the grin curling around his lips, the answer to an unspoken question.
"Passero mio," Romano says as he steps into the clearing.
Prussia turns to him with a sweeping gesture, morphs it into a bow somehow, eyes alive and well despite the hollows in his cheeks as he peeks up at Romano. "Meine Elster. What brings you to the outskirts of France?"
Romano flicks his cigarette in the snow. "Holiday."
"I bet." Prussia holds out his hands and wriggles his fingers.
Romano rolls his eyes but allows Prussia to warm his hands. They stand quietly for a little while, drinking in this small moment of peace. Prussia rubs gentle circles with his thumbs, humming softly as he bounces on his feet. Romano just observes him, the way his uniform is streaked with dirt, notices the way he leans more onto his left leg, finds him unshaven and unwashed and frankly filthy.
It doesn't deter him in the slightest.
Prussia sighs, closing his eyes, suddenly looking so infinitely tired. Romano frees a hand to trail it along his jaw softly, stands on his toes to press a short kiss against his lips.
"When was the last time you slept?" he asks, ghosting his thumb over the bags underneath Prussia's eyes.
"Don't remember." Prussia mouths along Romano's jaw. "When was the last time you shaved?"
"Mm, a couple of days ago."
Prussia cups Romano's jaw, doing the same exploration Romano did earlier, looking almost awed. "You can grow a beard? Like, a full one?"
Romano chuckles as Prussia noses down his neck, along the coarse hairs. "Yes."
"Why do you never grow it out?" Prussia straightens again. "You'll grow out of the baby face too."
"I quite like my baby face."
"Me too." Prussia kisses him, softly and unhurried. "I'm curious, though."
"Maybe after the war." Romano grasps Prussia's arms when he jolts back.
"After." Prussia laughs, hoarse and humourless.
Romano squeezes, hopes to ground Prussia where he sways in the breeze. "Yes. After. There is always an after, Prussia."
Prussia gives him a strange look, bordering between forlorn and downright empty. Then, slowly, steps back into the space he had vacated and allows Romano to wrap him in a hug.
"After," Prussia whispers, fingers digging into Romano's hips. "After, I want to take you to a movie. You like Verne, don't you? One of his books, they just released a movie of it in the USA."
Sighing, Romano runs his fingers through Prussia's hair. "I'd love to."
Silence settles around them, even as Romano gently tugs Prussia down to sit with him on a log. Previously, Romano would have hated it. His relationships, if you could even call them that, had been fast and hot and loud. And it had been so with Prussia, too, at the start.
But now, Romano gladly has his hands in Prussia's, pressed together against the cold, and he kisses along Prussia's hairline. The quiet is strange, but not unwelcome. Somehow warm and companionable, even as snow begins to fall around them.
Romano had figured that their relationship, their little secret, wouldn't last the turn of the century. They live different lives, have different ideals, are different Nations.
He hadn't expected to enjoy Prussia's company beyond a physical relationship. He hadn't anticipated to find an engaging conversationalist nor someone he could emotionally vulnerable with. Someone who he could trust, mind, body and soul.
He hadn't thought he would fall so completely in love with him.
"Lovino," Prussia says softly, using the touch of humanity they so rarely address. He bumps his nose against Romano's cheek. "What will you do, after?"
"Well, I have a movie date with this guy." Romano laughs as Prussia attempts to shove him off the log. Romano takes it in stride and pulls Prussia along with him, landing in the snow, scrambling away quickly as he recognizes the playful glint in Prussia's eyes.
They wrestle until Prussia pushes Romano back into the snow and straddles him, pinning his hands against the ground. Prussia presses chaste, yet incessant kisses against Romano's mouth.
"After," Romano breathes in between them. "After, I want you to come with me to Naples and I want to dance with you until our shoes have worn out."
"Sappy." Prussia moves his weight to his forearms, releasing Romano, who immediately wraps his arms around Prussia's neck and kisses him.
"As if you're not just as bad," Romano says, grinning as Prussia pauses in between kisses. "Knowing you, you'll want to sit in some hidden little alcove in those mansion gardens you so often brag about and—gasp!—hold my hand all day."
Prussia narrows his eyes and pries one of Romano's hands from around his shoulders, lacing their fingers together and pressing his lips against them shortly. "You do not get to judge courtly love, Lovino. It's romantic."
"Oh, Gilbert." Romano flutters his eyelashes. "Oh, my darling, wonderful, stunning Sir Gilbert. If only we could be together, but my husband—"
"Oh my God." Prussia snickers, unable to look away as Romano swoons and sighs.
"—my husband may not discover us, my darling." Romano tickles the skin behind Prussia's ears, smiling as Prussia lowers his head and laughs against his throat. "Sir Gilbert, oh, my heart thrums. It aches. It sighs for you, passerotto mio."
Prussia kisses him, soft and warm and—if Romano dares to—loving. Prussia weighs all his feelings into that kiss and whispers, "After, I'm going to tell you how much I love you."
Romano pauses, sitting up slowly when Prussia gives him the space to. When it seems as if Prussia withdraws from him, he reaches forward and cradles his jaw in his hands. He hesitates, "Gilbert…"
"I know." Prussia's trembling fingers cover one of Romano's hands, the others curling in his uniform. "I know, but a man can dream."
Romano kisses him, desperately and wanting and hurting. "Me too." He combs through Prussia's dirty hair, wants him closer yet knows that it'll never be close enough. "Fuck, Gilbert, me too."
Prussia withdraws slightly, thumbs along Romano's cheekbones. There's something so sad, something so distant and longing, burning in Prussia's eyes. It makes Romano wish he could whisk Prussia away, to a small little somewhere that is theirs, where there are no wars, no responsibilities, no Nations and their citizens. A small little somewhere where Romano is just Lovino and Prussia is just Gilbert, there where they are but two foolish men so desperately in love the world could burn to ash for all they cared.
But there can be no such thing.
Prussia blinks and frowns, breathing deeply as his hand grasps at his uniform underneath his heart.
Romano can't feel what it is, but then the Italians are only involved so much. He gently places his hand around the back of Prussia's neck and pulls him forward enough to plant a kiss against his temple.
"I'll keep you to those promises, After," he says.
Prussia breathes something that catches between a chuckle and a noise of anguish, holding onto Romano tightly as they kiss.
They never say goodbye, not in words, but Romano touches his hand to Prussia's cheek as Prussia leans down to press their foreheads together briefly, standing quietly until Prussia disentangles himself, gives another jovial bow, and vanishes between the thicket of the forest.
Romano lingers, eyes closed, and breathes the air of a war-torn country.
'After' might be a while still, but it's a thread he holds on to, even as he slowly meanders back to his little unit, to the cold reality of war, death and despair.
Belgium perks up slightly as he sits next to her, though she frowns as he lights another cigarette, but doesn't comment. She observes his face for a long moment.
"When are we moving?" she asks. The men tune into the question as well, leaving the space eerily quiet.
Romano eyes the sky. A lark whistles in the distance.
"Soon."
Originally posted on the 9th of November 2019 on AO3.